


Nyctophilia

by persephoneregina



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Declarations Of Love, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, First Kiss, General Geonhak, High Scribe Youngjo, Historical AU, Historical Dress, Imperial AU, Imperial Period, Learning to trust, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of War, Overcoming fears, Romance, Trust, Trust Issues, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephoneregina/pseuds/persephoneregina
Summary: «“You’re safe with me.”, he murmured with a giggle in his melodic voice, while lifting the General’s chin with his hand, to make sure he would see him clearly while the soft words were delivered to his ears. To make sure he knew how deeply he felt those.Geonhak looked down, instantly, too embarrassed to withstand Youngjo’s inquisitive eyes, and smiled, revealing a very different look than the one he was used to show: innocent, pure, lovable, far from the barely expressive and diffident man the High Scribe was used to seeing all the time. Witnessing such an endearing, truthful side of Geonhak, Youngjo thought he liked him even more than he already did.“And I will make sure you will be, as well, at all times.” Geonhak said, in a deeply soothing tone, cradling the High Scribe in his arms while he spoke those words.He caressed Youngjo’s back, lightly, afraid that even a slightly heavier touch could harm him, his fingertips running up and down the perfect curve of his spine, tracing his silhouette over and over again, as if he was to learn it by heart and impress it in his mind for the times to come when he wouldn’t have been able to touch him so freely.»
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Kim Youngjo | Ravn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30
Collections: WEUS Harvest Moon Fest





	Nyctophilia

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my darlings!  
> I am delighted to post my first ever YoungDo fic as a contribution to the excellently organised and so richly participated [Harvest Moon WeUs Fest](https://twitter.com/weusfest). I am actually very happy about this work, for it conciliates one of my absolutely favourite ships of all time with one of my most loved tropes, which is the historical AU, so please, if you happen to enjoy this little oneshot, I would be very grateful if you could spare some time to leave me a comment and let me know what you think, or kudos, to let me know it met your tastes!
> 
> As always, know that you can follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/persefoneregina) not only to keep up with my works and projects, but also to chitchat with me (I'm friendly I promise and I won't bite unless you ask me to).
> 
> Lots of love to all of you and please take care ♥

# Nyctophilia

The cloister inside the palace was perfectly quiet, if it wasn’t for the sound of the rain pouring all over the wooden tiles and on the cobbles. It was a moonless night and the palace was completely enveloped in an unreal darkness, broken only by the occasional blizzards that ripped the sky with their blinding light. Leaning against the wooden handrail, arms crossed and brows furrowed in an enigmatic expression where concern and fear meddled in an unclear mixture of general upsetment, the General was lost in his thoughts, while he admired for one last time the beauty of the imperial palace, anguished and melancholic, not knowing if he would have made it back from the war front. He hadn’t asked to be chosen for that role. That promotion in grade had come to him completely unexpected, and even though he had accepted, it was not like he really had a chance to decline that kind of honour. Surely not when the Emperor himself had offered it to him. It was weird: on the one hand, he was aware that, deep down his heart, he had yearned for the moment when his martial talent and his bright strategic intellect would have been finally acknowledged, but on the other hand the fear of having bitten more than he could chew wouldn’t leave him, no matter how hard he tried to remind himself his war merits and his undeniable skills.

“General,” a familiar, yet unexpected, voice broke the silence and made him shudder. It was the High Scribe, Kim Youngjo, still dressed in a beautiful black and red yungbok, ornate with golden embroidery. The silk, even in the deep of night, glowed under the bluish hue of the dark sky, and at a closer look a floral pattern could be distinguished all over the sumptuous fabric. How very typical of Youngjo, Geonhak thought, with just a tad bit of envy disguised as judgmentality, for which he reprimanded himself in his heart: after all, the care Youngjo put in his impeccable looks was a mere consequence of his mentality. He knew well that he seemed to believe in the existence of some sort of correspondence between a man’s ethic and his esthetic, which meant that he had the habit of using the same accuracy he dedicated to his refined looks to his work as well. No, Youngjo was not just a handsome face in lavish clothes: he was the mastermind behind their war strategies and the overall organisation of their army’s corps, highly educated, incredibly refined, smart as a whip and heir of a noble bloodline, whose members had all brought great honor upon during the centuries. Nothing like him. He came from a modest family of farmers, to which he was supposed to return, if it hadn’t been for the fact that, after his enlistment, he had figured that the military career was definitely more fitting for him than a lifetime of digging ditches and hoeing the ground. They came from worlds apart, but somehow, when they were discussing battle strategies and military maneuvers, it almost seemed as if they spoke the same language. He highly appreciated and valued Youngjo’s qualities, just as much as he despised his constant sarcasm and his haughty manners. “One would expect you to be resting in preparation for your departure, Geonhak.”

“One more sleepless night won’t harm. Not any more than the other ones, anyway.” the General answered, lowering his head between his shoulders.

“Here, if you have to spend the night in contemplation, at least you want to be warm.” The other man said, putting the blanket he was carrying in his hands around the General’s shoulders, before joining him, shoulder to shoulder, in quiet reflection.

“I was surprised to hear you will be joining the expedition.”

“Surprised? How come so?”

“You don’t seem to be cut for the fieldwork. All the mud and the blood may stain your pretty clothes, Master Tactician.”

Instead of getting upset, though, Youngjo sighed and lifted his head higher, to look at the sky, an enigmatic smile unfurling his naturally pink lips. Geonhak looked at him from the corner of his eye, careful as to not getting caught. The High Scribe, to him, had always ironically been the biggest mystery, the tightest line he had ever faced: impenetrable, imprevisible, constantly one step ahead of him, often irritatingly so, to the point that he almost felt ashamed and guilty when, for just a second, the thought crossed his mind that Youngjo was, indeed, breathtakingly beautiful, with his stern and regal profile standing out in the dark of the night thanks to his pale skin’s glow. 

“You never seem to change, do you? Keep your belligerency for the enemies on the battlefield.” Youngjo’s mouth was so close to Geonhak’s cheek that his whispers almost felt like caresses, and while the General was, without a doubt, used to fighting and being fought, the same could not be told about being addressed with kindness. He received orders, not words of concern. His shoulders carried the weight of his heavy armor, not the one of a warm blanket. That kind of behavior confused him and, if possible, made him even more wary, but at the same time Geonhak was too tired to question Youngjo’s reasons.

“My belligerency is the reason why I’ve never lost a battle.”

“...And the reason why _I_ suggested you on becoming appointed General. But I’m afraid it’ll be of no use against me, even more so now that it’s just the two of us and, believe it or not, I came in peace.”

“So it was your idea all along, uh?” Geonhak said, slightly turning his head around, just enough to look for Youngjo’s eyes this time and catch a smug smile on his face. “... _Why_?”

Youngjo turned around to face him, elbow pinned on the balustrade, shaking his head in some sort of disappointment. “Ah, Geonhak… If I didn’t know what a fierce and ruthless fighter you are, I would say your naivete is delectable.”

“Oh, is it?” The General glanced at him with his deep, pitch black eyes, ever so vivid and intense, defiantly.

“Indeed. You see, I don’t know why, but you somehow never seem to deem your merits as relevant as they truly are, which, I mean, I thoroughly appreciate your humility, probably something you must have inherited from your parents or something, but maybe you should start to have a higher consideration of yourself. Your actions speak volumes and that is what your career should all be about. Of course, there were other candidates for the same position, but no noble lineage can make up for the courage you have shown, the valiancy of your actions and the loyalty you have proven to the Emperor. To me it had always been clear that it had to be you, and the same can be said about Hwanwoong. Indeed, he is a young ruler, but he recognises excellence when he sees it, and so do I.”

“Hmpf,” Geonhak huffed, lifting a corner of his mouth in a smirk as he finally allowed his eyes to meet with the ones of the High Scribe “May I ask, with the best will possible, what kind of conversation are we having, _exactly_?”

Youngjo furrowed his brows, acting confused, way _too confused_ for the General’s tastes, in response to his question. After all, it was nothing new: they had always had opposite ways of facing the same issues, Geonhak being straightforward and terse, Youngjo instead would definitely be the type to take the long road around the core of the problem, making generous use of his nice manners and his eloquence.

“You seem to be laying it on thick way too prodigally tonight, Youngjo. You know what they say… When the Devil himself offers you the thing you want the most, you have to dance with him. And I’m not a good dancer.”

“Nor I am the Devil.” He answered, with a captivating look in his eyes that suggested thoroughly otherwise. “You don’t like me that much, do you?” Youngjo asked with a raise of his eyebrow, looking straight at Geonhak. 

That was a question he didn’t expect at all: that was not the kind of conversation he was used to having at court, where every talk was excessively ceremonious and no one ever bluntly spoke their mind about any subject ever, not even if it was about the weather.

“Does that matter?” Geonhak questioned in return, and this time it was not rhetoric. He genuinely wanted to know, to understand, to finally have a meaningful, truthful dialogue with him.

“Of course,” Youngjo answered, glaring at the handsome general with a long, telling gaze and an enigmatic smile on his soft lips “I like and value you very much. But I always get this feeling from you, almost as if you were trying to push me away, and even though I understand why you would do that, I can’t help but wonder if it’s just an impression I get from you or if it’s the truth.”

A thick wall of silence fell between them as they studied each other’s expressions, carefully waiting for a twitch, for a flinch, battling on who would have broken eye contact first out of them, while the tension between them increased and, for some reason, so did their heartbeats. Geonhak swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed his lips together. No, Youngjo wasn’t the Devil, but damn was he tempting. The more they talked, the more he felt unusually drawn towards him. Of course, Youngjo was naturally charismatic, it was not uncommon for him to catalyze the attention of his interlocutors whenever he would talk, but Geonhak knew that was not it. This time it was different. It was _more_ , under every aspect: more honest, more intense, and overall rawly vivid in the moment’s powerful intimacy. They had never been able to speak like that before, they had never found themselves having the possibility to be alone, away from the prying eyes of the court’s members, and observing how pleasant and interesting Youngjo’s company was, was both surprising and confusing for Geonhak, who had always been very wary of him out of a sort of ancestral diffidence towards the nobles, which he had always deemed to be untrustworthy and insinuating. 

“Can I speak frankly?” The General asked after taking a deep breath, like that simple question cost him a great deal of anxiety to be spoken up. If they eventually had to have a serious confrontation, Geonhak wanted to make sure they both were on the same page and that they would have done it on the open, without ulterior motives. He hated having to be wary of every single social interaction, and for that one time Geonhak found himself yearning to speak without the underlying fear that anything he would have said could have been manipulated and twisted to be used against him in the future. He knew that, probably, if this had been Youngjo’s intention, of course he wouldn’t have told him, but still he wanted to believe that the High Scribe would have esteemed him enough to lend him the honour of his sincerity.

“Nothing I’d like more.” Youngjo said, his hand involuntarily moving forward on the laquered wood of the balustrade, beaded with raindrops clashing against it, so close that their fingertips touched. Youngjo wanted to reassure him about his intentions, and yet he didn’t seem to find a way that could have effectively convinced Geonhak that he had no other intentions than to get to know him a little better, a little deeper, a little closer. For some reason, people would usually find it easy to like him and to open up to him. Even more so, most individuals at court seemed to perceive that as an honour. But when it came to the General, all of his attempts seemed to fall on deaf ears, and Youngjo wanted to understand why the only person he really wanted to get closer to kept on pushing him back.

“It’s not like that. It’s not that I don’t like _you_. I don’t like this environment, this reality, this lifestyle,” Geonhak said, in a sigh, swaying his arms around to indicate the palace “I feel out of place most of the time and I have the constant feeling of not fitting in. I’m not cut out for this kind of dimension, I guess. I like the battlefield, where’ we’re all brothers and we fight for the same purpose, with the same fear of not making it out alive and the same love and fervor in our hearts. I like it, because there, in the mud and the blood, in the snow and the rain, we all speak the same language and share a bond that is inexplicable in any other context. Here, instead…”

“...Everything is so artificious and ceremonious that it feels unbearable.” Surprisingly, while Geonhak was still looking for the words in his mind, Youngjo completed his sentence.

“Precisely.” The General nodded, and this time he didn’t wince when he felt the fingertips of the High Scribe slowly climb on his cold hand, from his phalanges to his knuckles and under his brazen handguards, in a timid escalation of a tenderness and an intimacy he would have never deemed him capable of. Not towards him, anyway. Incredulous and emotional, heart racing against his heavy armor so fast it left him breathless, Geonhak couldn’t even move, overwhelmed as he was by the way with which Youngjo kept tracing soft lines against the back of his hand, indulging on the brittle skin of his knuckles and on that old scar near his wrist he earned himself many years ago.

“You may not believe me when I tell you I understand your struggles at court, but I do. Of course, not to a full extent, since our backgrounds are radically different, and I mean it with the utmost respect for you. Nonetheless, I feel like we both live in this setting, yet we’re never fully a part of it. We are stuck in a sort of a middle world, where our presence is required because of the role we play, but we’re not welcomed as individuals, where we make the decisions and someone else takes credit for them, where we are adulated from the same people who wish we were gone to take our place. We live in a place we don’t want to live in as creatures who are seen as not much more than knicknacks to use at their needs, with no real power beside the one we have within the margins conceded to us, and cannot really trust anyone with our real thoughts and feelings. Isolated from the external world and outsiders in the one we are forced to be in, we can’t go back to our realities and we still don’t belong to the one where we should.” Youngjo said, and Geonhak almost crumbled as he listened to him mentioning all those feelings, which he knew by heart, but was not used to hearing spoken into words, by a voice that was not his own and that yet seemed so familiar with a struggle he had never dared to let show. 

In that moment, many contrasting thoughts crowded the General’s mind, fueled by the ancestral fear of betrayal his subconscious had been festered with from his arrival at the Imperial Palace: what was Youngjo really after? Was the High Scribe using a tactic? Why was he being so nice to him? Could he trust him with his real feelings? What could he possibly want from him? What was his gain in coming to him and trying to crack him open? 

Geonhak took a deep breath. In spite of all Youngjo’s reassurances, he could not bring himself to trusting him, even though he was aware he needed someone to talk to, to open up his heart to.

“Youngjo, you’re making me have a hard time right now, you know? Because I want to trust you… I want to trust you so much… ” he said, choking a sigh in his throat. He was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of hiding, tired of constantly wearing a mask without ever letting go of it, for God knew what could have happened if he did. Most of all, what Geonhak was really, excruciatingly, tired of was his loneliness, to the point that even that simple, gentle touch from Youngjo made him want to melt down under his caresses, letting the rain wash away his tears as he finally let go of all of his suffering.

Being away from his home, without being able to return to see his family for even years in a row, had made him suffer way more than he expected to. And in that moment Youngjo felt like the closest thing to family he had ever experienced since he had been at court: warm, caring, welcoming.

He turned his hand around, allowing Youngjo’s hand to wallow in his own, reciprocating his caresses, this time, as if he involuntarily wanted him to know that he was letting down his defences, that he had the permission to get close, to see him better, to know his truth.

“And yet you can’t, can you?” The High Scribe whispered, looking straight at the General’s frowned face, trying to detect his feelings, saddened and yet understanding his hardships. He knew it was hard to trust someone in that environment. Youngjo had learnt that lesson long ago at great cost, but he understood how hard it could have been for someone as stern and private as Geonhak to relate to his words, to believe that he was not standing in front of him not in the role of the High Scribe, but just as himself. Kim Youngjo. Who wasn’t asking for anything more than Geonhak understanding just to what extent, how much he wanted to be with him. How much he had wanted to do so from the first moment he saw him. “I know it’s hard for you, but trust me, Geonhak, I mean no harm. I could never. Not to you…”

The General swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to rationalize that feeling of growing tension and racing heartbeat inside his chest, but as soon as he raised his eyes, the odds were catastrophically against him: as a matter of fact, eventually, when Geonhak found it in him to look at Youngjo again, he remained speechless: kissed by the dreamy silver light of the night, he was not just handsome. He looked breathtakingly dashing.

As Youngjo wrapped one hand behind his neck, the only audible noise, beside the pouring rain, was the soothing one of his necklaces brushing one against the other and swinging over the skin of his chest.

“You don’t have to guard yourself from me,” Youngjo said out loud, softly smiling and indulging in the depths of Geonhak’s shining eyes “I know you’re used to fighting, but I can tell that’s not your nature. Just as much as it’s not my own.”

“And how can you tell?” The General asked, lowering his gaze, embarrassed, trying to shy away from Youngjo, almost scared at how seen he made him feel. Youngjo made him feel not only vulnerable, but also safe, and Geonhak didn’t know how much his self control would have allowed him to withstand the looks he was giving him before succumbing the soft charm of the Scribe.

“Because I’ve tried to observe you and to get to know the best way I could, ever since you arrived, for as much as I believed being legitimate, tasteful and discreet without being invasive and, as I said and from what I have been able to understand about you, I like you very much. I like how uncannily your furrowed brows mark your focused expression whenever we are discussing a war strategy. I like how you don’t try to honeycoat your opinions, even though you always express them in an extremely polite way. I like to listen to your projects and ideas, because I am constantly amazed at how smart your solutions are. But most of all, I like how you wear your scars with pride and your title with humility. And I’m sure I’d like you even more, if you would grant me the privilege to get better acquainted to you.”

Cautiously, almost studying Geonhak’s reactions in order to follow his pace, to not overstep, to let him have his time to express his tacit consent for him to get closer, Youngjo took a step closer towards the General, their chests parted by the thinnest breath of air, and slowly raised his gaze, waiting for Geonhak to feel ready to reciprocate him, while he gently kept playing with his hand. Youngjo was soft and gentle, like a summer night’s breeze, and every word that left his mouth felt like a moral caress on Geonhak’s yearning soul. He felt understood and embraced in all of his being, he felt seen and known for who he really was and, even more astoundingly, he, who was used to being the one to protect everyone else, felt _safe_. 

So, he spread his fingers, in a silent invitation, that thankfully didn’t end up unnoticed, for the Scribe to interlock his ones with the General’s, and in the deep of night, barely protected by the pouring rain, they eventually found themselves holding hands and staring at each other with devoted rapture, suspended, even just temporarily, in a fraction of eternity where the rest of the world had been put on hold to allow them to fully sinky in dreamy adoration.

“I believe I will grant you all of your wishes, Youngjo.” Then, in absolute silence, the General leaned down, his cheek brushing ever so slightly against the Scribe’s, and timidly pressed an impalpable kiss on his lobe, so light it felt like a dream. 

So light Youngjo wanted more.

Geonhak inhaled the soft perfume of essential oils emanating from the warm skin of Youngjo’s neck, taking his time to savour it and to let that floral fragrance overtake his mind, while his heart raced in his chest, he himself being astonished by his own audacity, but was left no time to regret his sudden boldness or to feel ashamed for it, because, before he knew, Youngjo wrapped both of his hands around his neck with slow, slightly hesitant yet elegant movements.

He smelled like jasmine, camellia and peony.

He smelled like the full moon.

He smelled like love.

Geonhak closed his eyes, as he eagerly inhaled the fragrance Youngjo was radiating, and felt a flare of heat, radiating from the pit of his stomach to the ends of his limbs, tempting him to draw the High Scribe closer, so much he had to clench his fist to prevent himself from doing it. Of course, he yearned to touch Youngjo in return, to wrap his arms around his lean waist, to dive on his lips and seal that moment of perfection between them with a kiss; nonetheless, a part of him kept preventing Geonhak from daring any further, terrified at the thought of any sort of rejection, of having misunderstood everything, of being ridiculed for his heart’s naive desires.

Even though Youngjo couldn’t really see him, he knew he was blushing, he felt a tension in his neck as he tried to shy away from him. Youngjo understood, once more, that what Geonhak needed the most was safety and reassurance. And God forbid he would have been the one to deny him such things.

“You look very troubled.” The High Scribe whispered, through his soft lips, fluttering his long, dark lashes, his voice sounding as captivating as a mermaid’s calling to claim Geonhak’s soul as his own. 

“Please…” He continued, with his chanting voice, luring Geonhak closer and closer, now slowlier, completely mesmerized, and pliant. Youngjo completely took over him when he cupped the General’s face in his silk smooth hands. “Let me take care of it.”

It couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t be true.

Geonhak felt electricity run through his body and was almost unconscious when he instinctively put his right arm around the waist of the other man, allowing his fingers to gently dive within the mellow creases of the silk, marveled at the touch of the celestial smoothness of the fabric and, at the same time, startled at the perception of Youngjo’s body under his fingertips.

It was, indeed, real.

More real than he could have ever imagined anything being.

At long last, their lips gravitated towards each other in an inevitable, yet shy, approach, just as if they were reciprocally asking permission to meet halfway and melt into each other in a kiss. 

Youngjo fluttered his lashes unwittingly at the touch of Geonhak’s left hand, warm and manly, brushing against his cheek, and brought him closer by his chin, until their lips touched in a quiet seal, pressing further in a myriad of sweet, light, soft kisses. Like a newborn galaxy, their kisses got increasingly warmer, wetter, more and more intense by the second, until their lips slipped one over the other and slowly disclosed one for the other, like two roses blossoming together, allowing their tongues to shyly meet and get acquainted to the reciprocal touches.

That miraculous happenstance repeated itself for a countless amount of time, again and again, as no one of them really wanted to part from the other, terrified at the thought that, if they did, all that happened between them could have turned out to be a dream, a mirage, a trick of the mind.

If only he could have, Geonhak wished, he would have stayed like that forever and just forgotten the world.

The wet sound of their lips and their breaths were the only audible noises while their hands slid over and over each other’s body, mentally figuring shapes, images, sensations.

There was giggling, soft moaning, exhaling, and more kissing. 

They continued surging forward at each other, alternating gentle, sweet pecks to adoring, deep kisses, all coming so naturally and spontaneously that anyone could have sworn they were longtime lovers.

In a sudden rush of passion, Geonhak held Youngjo by his waist, gliding with his hands on the fabric so tightly that he could have felt it wrinkle under his fingers’ pressure and pushing him against one of the wooden columns. 

Youngjo chuckled in the most lovable way ever, probably both surprised and endeared at the same time, looking for Geonhak’s eyes with his intense, sensual gaze.

“You’re safe with me.”, he murmured with a giggle in his melodic voice, while lifting the General’s chin with his hand, to make sure he would see him clearly while the soft words were delivered to his ears. To make sure he knew how deeply he felt those.

Geonhak looked down, instantly, too embarrassed to withstand Youngjo’s inquisitive eyes, and smiled, revealing a very different look than the one he was used to show: innocent, pure, lovable, far from the barely expressive and diffident man the High Scribe was used to seeing all the time. Witnessing such an endearing, truthful side of Geonhak, Youngjo thought he liked him even more than he already did.

Youngjo was radiating a natural charm and emanated a soothing sense of calmness and serenity that made Geonhak want to contemplate him for hours, quietly, just basking in his perfection.

“And I will make sure you will be, as well, at all times.” Geonhak said, in a deeply soothing tone, cradling the High Scribe in his arms while he spoke those words, that sounded more like an oath he took on the stars, than a promise he was making to Youngjo himself.

He caressed Youngjo’s back, lightly, afraid that even a slightly heavier touch could harm him, his fingertips running up and down the perfect curve of his spine, tracing his silhouette over and over again, as if he was to learn it by heart and impress it in his mind for the times to come when he wouldn’t have been able to touch him so freely. 

Youngjo surged towards him, to kiss him again, the necklaces around his neck producing a faint clinking sound and his lips slightly tensed in a smile as he pressed his lips against the General’s, again and again, making the most of that, he knew well, almost unrepeatable time of bliss they had both been allowed to savour. Their chests were touching and Geonhak could have sworn he had felt their hearts beating together, or at least so he wished to believe in that moment. Youngjo’s lips were so soft and delicate and plump and his hands touched Geonhak’s cheeks in a loving way that the General almost felt him caressing his soul through his skin with that delicate, healing touch.

Geonhak was completely captivated by the magical atmosphere, not really thinking, for once, rather feeling and following the liberating sensation of letting loose of all of his restraints to only be his true self. 

Not a fighter, not the General, just human.

Eventually, they slightly parted from one another and dove deep in each other’s eyes, at a loss for words, breathing heavily. 

“Youngjo, I am serious when I say I will make sure you will be safe at all times. That’s why, tomorrow, when I will leave, you shouldn’t come.” Geonhak whispered, taking Youngjo into his arms and holding him tight against his chest. “I wasn’t joking when I said that the battlefield is no place for you. It’s dangerous, out there.”

“And what would you want me to do? Disobey the Emperor’s orders?” Youngjo asked, while mindlessly tracing lines and swirls on the scale plate armour of the General. He knew very well where Geonhak was coming from. For that matter, he had been wishing with all of his heart for that expedition to be cancelled, and not for his own safety, but because he knew how selfless and daring Geonhak had the fame to be on the battlefield. The only thought of him ending up injured made his blood run cold, as he hugged him tighter, naively hoping that, until Geonhak had been in his arms, he would have also been away from harm.

“The Emperor can shove his orders…”

“No, he cannot. And you don’t mean this. You know you don’t.” He gently scolded Geonhak,suppressing all of the selfish thoughts he had swirling in his mind, knowing he didn’t mean it, but still needing to reprimand him, for those words were not the ones the man he knew would have spoken if he had been in his right mind. “This is not what we are going to do, Geonhak. I will not stay here and wait, praying for you to come back all in one piece, without getting any news from you in weeks. I will abide by what the Emperor had bid me to do, and so will you. By no means we will let such a beautiful feeling inficiate the way we would usually behave. We have duties, first and foremost.”

“I know we do, but what about the duties I have towards you? How can you ask me something like that?” Geonhak retaliated, frustrated at the sudden arousal of such a deep and unforeseen inner strife. He had crossed an invisible line and now it was too late for him to retrace his steps and pretend nothing had happened, to step back into his algid, emotionless persona, when all he wanted was a way out from that excruciating situation where his professional conduct clashed so harshly with his own private moral code. 

“I’m not the one asking, Geonhak… This is not about my wishes, or yours. This is about what we are demanded to do in the capacity of our roles. Still, I do believe this sacrifice will be worth carrying out. We will take care of each other, out there, even if that means to just exchange a smile and to find comfort in the thought that we both made it out alive one more day. We will be leaving tomorrow morning and we will give our all to show the world what we are capable of achieving. So that, when we will come back, we will be able to be together for all the time we will have left. Can you do this for me?” Youngjo asked, raising his head and catching the General’s sweet eyes looking back at him, lovingly.

“I can do everything for you.” Geonhak answered, placing a light peck on the High Scribe’s forehead. He took a long, deep breath, as he stared at the clouded, rainy sky, while holding Youngjo tighter. For the first time in years, the General didn’t feel like a fighter. He felt like a lover, and that awareness had awoken a form of courage still unknown to him. Now he knew he was not only going to war for his Country, for his Emperor, for his people, but to grant a chance to happiness to him and Youngjo, and suddenly that responsibility weighed more, in his heart, than any other one could have possibly done ever before. “Come now,” he whispered, “Let’s get some rest.We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Youngjo nodded, as he softly slipped to Geonhak’s side, under his strong arm wrapped around his shoulder, and the two silently walked towards the dark corridor that led back inside the Palace. 

“Yes,” he answered, with a faint smile on his lips, “Indeed we do.”

And so, they disappeared into the darkness, holding each other tight and keeping their heads high, as they undertook to face the two long journeys unfolding in front of them: the one that would have led him to war and the one to love.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
